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Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

On Saturday morning, my husband and I set out on an adventure to buy a puppy. The previous day, Friday, the eggs in our wood duck house began to hatch. This year we did not have a wood duck, though. The sitting mother hen was a black-bellied whistling duck. We have a Ring doorbell camera mounted in the nesting box near the bayou. We’d been watching the comings and goings of this hen for 30+ days.

Black-bellied whistling duck from Creative Commons

Wood ducks hatch on one day and jump from the nesting box on the next day, Jump Day. So do whistlers. Because we were on the road, we were watching the jump from my phone. I became distressed when I realized one of the babies had not jumped. He was jumping and flipping, but not toward the metal mesh that serves as a ladder. Time passed, so I was convinced the mother and the other 14 babies were well on their way down the bayou. What should we do?

Call Ric, of course. I tried Ric and his wife as well as my neighbor Shirley. All became concerned. And the next time I checked the camera, the baby was gone. At first I assumed he had finally made the leap. Then I got a call from Ric’s wife, Svitlana. She is well known for rescuing animals, cats, dogs, and owls. (Here is a link to the owl story.) She had the baby duck and was researching what to feed it.

On Saturday, we successfully found a new puppy. He is settling in and bringing us joy. We walked over to visit the baby duckling. He is also settling in and bringing joy. His (or her) little life was saved. Ric and Svitlana will keep him safe until he’s big enough to fly. Whistlers are migratory birds, so they have an instinct to leave. The owl has not left the area. He still calls across the bayou every evening to remind us that wild animals can be saved.

“Utochka” Ukranian for little duck.
Baby Black-bellied whistling duckling- take a look at those big feet!

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Poetry Friday is hosted today by Tracey Kiff-Judson at Tangles & Tails.

Here we are again with a monthly Inkling challenge. This month Molly challenged us with a prompt from Pádraig Ó Tuama who said “A poem is a word-event going in many directions at once. Sometimes the “you” of a poem is a specific person, at other times it’s the poet, or a general audience, and at times there’s no you at all so the poem addresses itself to the world.”

Molly asked us to write a narrative poem that includes observations about the world and explores the craft of address, the you of a poem. On a recent morning walk, I spoke two observations into my notes app. I felt invaded upon when a truck high up on oversized wheels revved its engine at me as it passed. The other observation was not connected at all. I saw oak tree arms leaning on electric wires. We’ve had a number of sudden storms this summer, and each one is frightening. That’s all to say that poetry is a place where I can vent; I can let steam rise and fall. I address this poem to the you of a random monster truck.

Grandmother Oak Sunrise
June 6, 2024

You disturb my peace.

You! with your hot wheels
rumbling down the road,
motor revving, disrupt
this peace of mind I’m in
writing a poem
in my head
about birds singing.

Birds sing as you pass,
your rolled-up windows
beat-boxing,
shaking a rhythm

of my walking, heart pumping
brow sweating. I’m in this groove
you move your hard edge
against. 

My poem wants
to be kind, but I cannot wash
away your harsh sound
that erases the wind
heaving a heavy sigh

like the old oak arms
leaning on electric wires
holding heavy vibration–
a lightning bolt I cry

to be saved from. 

Margaret Simon, draft

Take a look at how my Inkling friends approached this challenge:

Linda @A Word Edgewise
Catherine @Reading to the Core
Molly @Nix the Comfort Zone
Mary Lee @Another Year of Reading
Heidi @my juicy little universe

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This month’s Spiritual Journey is being gathered by Karen Eastlund.

In these first few weeks of summer, I find myself lingering. Taking my time on my morning walk to stop and take a picture, visit with a neighbor, enjoy the bird songs. I linger over morning coffee. I know this is how it should be, but there’s this little mouse in my brain that thinks I should accomplish things. I sing to myself “It is Well”.

When peace like a river, attendeth my way
When sorrows like sea billows roll
Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well, with my soul

It is well
With my soul
It is well, it is well with my soul

Audrey Assad

Peace is my one little word for 2024, so I pay attention. Peace comes to me in songs, in the sounds of the birds, in the slowing down of summer.

When I stopped to take pictures in my neighbor’s garden, she said, “Now write a haiku.” She laughed, but that is what I did. Haiku is a perfect form for peaceful nature noticing.

Canopy of oak arms
reaching, tossing tumbling light–
peace attends my soul.
photo and haiku by Margaret Simon
Freckled lily blossom
Lonely lighthouse beacon
Pool of goldfish beams
photo and haiku by Margaret Simon

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Sunflower by Margaret Simon

On Memorial Day, I visited a sunflower farm out in the country with my family. I brought a bucket load home and made 5 vases full. It was fun to give them away to neighbors. I kept this large one for myself. It made its happy face known in my kitchen. Since the sunflower seed head is a fibonacci sequence, I decided to write a fib poem. A fib poem is 20 syllables as each line follows the sequence, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8.

Face
it!
I glow
yellowbright
on tables, in fields–
Happiness grows if you let it.

Margaret Simon, draft

Please leave your own poem in the comments and encourage other writers with responses. Happy Summer!

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Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

On Friday evening, Francisco invited me to dinner. At the time, I didn’t know who would be attending. Fran has been visiting from Argentina, and we’ve been meeting weekly for a few months now. We usually meet in a coffee shop with one of my former students to read and write poetry. Corrine is hosting Fran and suggested that they cook a meal for a few friends. I was delighted to see Carolyn was there.

Carolyn and I taught together years ago and have stayed friends, but we don’t see each other often, especially during the busy school year. We are on summer break and maybe that made us giddy, or maybe it was the wine, but we were laughing a lot.

Fran suggested we play “Exquisite Corpse.” I kind of knew what it was; I think I’ve done it with students, but I didn’t think of it as a common party game or a very reliable way to write a poem. Fran insisted this would be good. “It’s making new art–authentic,” he said.

I didn’t take it as seriously. Especially when Carolyn added the line “two left feet.” I laughed so hard.

Exquisite Corpse is a game that inspires creativity. As a sheet of paper is passed around, each person writes a line and folds the paper so the line is hidden for the next writer. After we wrote a few very rough verses, Fran and Daniel put the words to music. I believe good musicians can make anything sound good, even the words, “two left feet.”

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Photo by Molly Hogan

I recently wrote a poem about the loss of an old oak for the sake of a new road. We discussed my poem in the Inklings writing group on Sunday. Molly texted this photo to the group. “I thought of our conversation when I was walking in a nearby town and discovered they’d cut down tons of trees as they repair the sidewalks. It made me so sad. Someone had placed these small cloth notes on the remains.”

I was considering a butterfly photo for today, but when she sent this, it hit me in my gut. We have to use poetry to resist. This itself is poetry of resistance.

The roots are sewing
messages of sorrow–
saying goodbye to their masters,
the trunk and branches
they served for years.
Underground, the roots
hold hands in solidarity
grieving and wishing
the world would understand.

Margaret Simon, draft

Please leave a small poem in the comments paying homage to the trees. Remember to respond with encouragement to other writers.

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Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

When something bad happens,
something that brings you harshly back to reality,
letting you know one day
you will lose the life you have now,
look for butterflies.

Two weeks before,
when all was blooming
and life was full of daily walks
among wildflowers,
we took into our classroom
black swallowtail larvae.

This is a dependable cycle,
metamorphosis, changing,
eating itself into a chrysalis,
camouflaged, unrecognizable.

Then like a miracle,
beauty breaks free
out of nature’s cage
reminding us
we long for flight.

Black Swallowtail Butterfly released into our school garden. photo by Margaret Simon

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Storm in Des Moines, Iowa; photographer unknown.

Storms seem to pop up out of nowhere these days. This week we had one blow through that knocked out an outdoor light in a literal flash, Crash! What does this photo conjure for you? Fear? Curiosity? Memory? Please leave a small poem in the comments.

I haven’t written a skinny poem in a while. The rules are 11 lines, the first and last uses the same words and can be any length. The other lines are one word with a repeated word in lines 2, 6, and 10.

Storms come suddenly in the night
bearing
violent
windswept
voice
bearing
climate
change
stress
Suddenly, in the night, storms come.

Margaret Simon, draft

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Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

Mother’s Day is a hard day for many women. My Mother’s Day was hard this year. That hard was unexpected. I have three daughters who are each mothers now. Isn’t that something to celebrate? Yes, of course. Not to mention my beautiful grandchildren! My husband and I made a small effort to celebrate his mother with lunch and gifts of plants. I am in the middle, not really a mother anymore. Not mothered anymore. The above quote talks about this shift. It’s big and hard.

Elizabeth Gilbert sent a prompt for her followers to write from: “Dear Love: What would you have me know about mothers today?” Here is a portion of my letter from Love.

You want to keep your arms wide for them, but you can close them around yourself. You have to become lovable only to yourself now. There is freedom and grace in this stage. You did your best. You left your loveseed and fertilized it to grow in them as mothers. Turn your loving toward home, dear one. Open arms are there for you.

My own mother, as many of you know, is living with Alzheimer’s. I have opened a fundraiser page for The Longest Day, an event for the Alzheimer’s Association. I think all of us have been touched by Alzheimer’s. You can donate at my personal page here. For a $50 donation, my ADK sisters and I have made purple beaded bracelets.

Here is a photo my brother sent of my mother from Mother’s Day at her memory care home.

My mother, Dot Gibson. She’s still smiling!

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Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.

We are nearing the end of the school year, so last week I panicked. I have to get the end-of-the-year narrative writing done for my SLT (Student Learning Target). I’m calmer now because yesterday I realized while working with my second grader that there has been growth, even while I wasn’t really paying attention. He completely filled one page and has more to say.

My students write a Slice of Life every week. They post on a blog site formerly known as Kidblog, now Fanschool. This weekly practice is graded, but the rubric is rather basic. More of a get-‘er-done checklist rather than anything meticulous. I forgot that the practice of writing weekly creates improvement.

Yesterday I heard my older students claiming word counts.

“I wrote 500 words!”

“I can top that easily!”

These claims were not so much competitive as they were evidence that I had nothing to worry about. They’ve learned to elaborate, to use transitions, to add dialogue, to end with a satisfying conclusion, not because I have told them to, but because that is what writers do.

Like the gladiolus my friend dropped off at my back door, their long stem of learning has blossomed and continues to grow. I am proud to be the holder of the blooming flowers. I must’ve done something good.

Glad Elfchen
Students
bloom when
you let them
be the flowers they
Choose.

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